


Brighter

by asignoftwo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Reunion, Sherlock deduces and John is amazed, Sherlock is a bit obsessed with John, and John doesn't really mind, some Kidlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asignoftwo/pseuds/asignoftwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why exactly is there a print of a bee on Sherlock's bedroom wall?  And what does it have to do with John Watson?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brighter

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: reason that Sherlock has a print of a bee on his bedroom wall.
> 
>    
> -Not Brit-picked, so I apologize for any mistakes. 
> 
> -They are in primary school: Sherlock is in year 4, and John is in year 6. (equivalent to US 3rd and 5th grades respectively)
> 
> Happy Reading.

* * *

Chameleon colored eyes peered out from under dark, unruly curls. Taking refuge from the sun’s unforgiving rays, a young boy sat on the pavement near the school’s brick wall, hugging his knees to his chest. From his vantage point he could see his classmates on the playground, bundled up to fend off the frigid winter air.

The forgotten boy glared at his ungloved hand, pale even against the slight layer of snow on the ground. Despite the distinct numbness spreading across his uncovered fingers, there was a sharp pain radiating from his thumb. Once again, he tried in vain to remove the bee stinger lodged in the digit, only to hiss in pain when his gloved left hand clumsily failed to cooperate. Hot tears gathered in the brunette’s eyes and he blinked them away in frustration at the weakness.

A faint crunching sound caught Sherlock’s attention, and he tensed as a blonde boy sat next to him against the wall. There was silence except for the distant laughter of children playing, which quickly faded into the background as the boy captured all of Sherlock’s attention.

John Hamish Watson.

That was his name. Sherlock knew this because everyone knew John Watson. He was in his fifth year, only two years above Sherlock, and was nice to everybody. But while everyone else liked John because he shared his biscuits at lunch, Sherlock found him undeniably _fascinating_.

It all started at the beginning of the year, when Sherlock had been unable to resist the urge to deduce some of the lunch lady’s more unsanitary habits. He was immediately yelled at, which prompted the students behind him to snicker cruelly. He quickly turned to flee, when his eyes met a pair of dark blue ones directly behind him. It was only later, when his mind was replaying the incident over, that he came to a shocking realization; the owner of the blue eyes had been smiling in amusement. He was laughing, not at Sherlock, but at his deductions. This knowledge caused a warm feeling to settle in his stomach. That was the moment he became utterly consumed with learning everything about the blonde boy who smiled like the sun.

Now, suddenly faced with the focus of his observations, Sherlock found his mind curiously blank, and his heart racing in his chest.

John shoved a hand into his black coat, that was clearly a few sizes too big, and pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper in triumph. He turned to face Sherlock and wordlessly motioned for his ungloved hand. Warily, Sherlock watched as John briefly inspected his injured finger before nimbly pulling the stinger out. Then, he was ripping open the paper- _oh, it was a Band Aid_ \- and gently wrapping Sherlock’s thumb in the familiar brown material.

Numbly, Sherlock stared at his newly bandaged finger, before turning his fathomless eyes on John. Predictably, the same warm smile adorned the blonde’s features. Feeling dazed, Sherlock found himself grinning back.

“What’s your-“

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, I’m-“

“John Watson, sixth year, at least one sibling. You recently acquired a cat. You get above average marks in class, but dislike maths.”

“How did you know-“

“The same way I know there was a row at your house this morning, which caused your parents to forget to pack a lunch and find your coat: I observe.” Sherlock stared hard at the ground, waiting for John to inevitably leave.

“That’s fantastic!”

“What?” Sherlock questioned in disbelief, eyeing John with confusion. He hadn’t anticipated this response.

“Can you tell me how you did that?” John asked, leaning forward eagerly.

Sherlock paused, before launching into an explanation. “I know that coat is not yours, because it’s too big and you’ve never worn it before. Also, it’s not new because there are a few stray cat hairs on the sleeve. It belongs to your older brother, Harry, whose name is labeled on the tag inside the collar. I know that you usually bring lunch from home but didn’t have one today. That loud boy at lunch gave you his carrots because he was too busy eating the biscuits he snuck from his house. The most likely reason for parents to be so forgetful is that there was a row. Seeing as it’s February 14th, it was obviously due to an absence of flowers, sweets, or some other arbitrary expectation of gifts.”

There was a second of agonizing silence as Sherlock stared at John in defiance, as if daring him to be frightened or angry.

“Brilliant.”

Sherlock cocked his head, puzzled at John’s unexpected responses. “You’re not running away.”

“What?”

“No one’s ever said that before.” He explained honestly.

“What do they usually say?”

“A bad word mummy tells me not to use.”

Silence descended between the two boys again.

“You did miss one thing.” John offered, grinning smugly. “Harry's short for Harriett.”

Sherlock’s head whipped around as he narrowed his eyes at John’s too pleased expression. “Harry's your sister! How could I have missed that? Obvious.”

John’s gaze drifted to Sherlock’s bandaged thumb, and he was unable to reign in his curiosity. “So how’d you get stung, anyways?”

“A bee.” Sherlock glared at the offending thumb, as if blaming it for his woes.

Rolling his eyes, John shuffled as if about to stand. To leave.

Filled with an abrupt and unexpected sense of panic, Sherlock’s hand shot out and grasped the sleeve of John’s coat. “I was trying to pick a flower.”

John raised an eyebrow at the fingers anchored onto his coat, puzzled because he had simply been shifting to warm up. He never planned on leaving this strange boy.

“Why would- Oh. For Valentine’s day!” John concluded, smirking at the brunette who suddenly found his cheeks flushed pink. From the cold, of course.

Sherlock had always thought that the idea of a day where one was required to give gifts was pointless. Why would you appreciate something that was obligatory? For this reason, Sherlock had greeted his classmates’ enthusiasm with multiple eye rolls and scoffs. Until lunch. At lunch, he felt a wave of some unidentifiable emotion burn through him with all the sudden-ness of a thunderstorm. John was carrying his usual backpack, but it was full of roses and various cartoon-decorated cards.

Roses: the most ordinary and unimaginative of all plants.

_Boring._

_Dull._

Two adjectives that are polar opposites of John Watson.

Wordlessly, Sherlock stood and started for the other side of the building.

Confused and unwilling to let his new friend slip away, John jumped up-albeit less gracefully-and followed after him. He found the lanky boy stopped at the corner of the building, with no one else in sight. Huffing in annoyance at being ignored, it took John a second to realize that Sherlock was staring at a specific spot on the frost-covered ground.

Moving to stand next to the shorter boy, John caught sight of what had earned Sherlock’s undivided attention: a flower. As far as flowers go, this one was rather small. It seemed to have bloomed early, springing up from the sleet-covered ground despite the wintery weather. The center was a bright, sunny yellow surrounded by delicate crimson petals.

“It’s a daisy.” Sherlock answered the un-asked question. “They are often thought to symbolize innocence and loyalty.”

Then, John found himself receiving the full force of Sherlock’s penetrating gaze. The younger boy stared at John, waiting for him to work out what he was attempting to say. Sherlock knew the exact moment John understood. His eyes lit up in comprehension, and his mouth dropped in surprise.

“It was supposed to be for me?” Shock. Disbelief. Amazement.

Sherlock gave John a look that seemed to be both patronizing and questioning his intelligence. It was a cross between ‘obviously’, and ‘honestly I don’t know how I put up with this’.

John fought the urge to laugh. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t pick it.”

Sherlock managed to look both affronted and wounded by John’s words, and he immediately took a few steps away.

“Let me bloody finish!” John exclaimed, stepping forward to follow the skittish boy. “I was trying to say that this way it doesn’t have to die. And I can come here to look at it whenever I want.“

Sherlock blinked in surprise, his face almost comically dumbfounded. _John. John was even more unexpected than he thought. Wonderful._

The two boys shared equally joyful grins, unaware that this was the beginning of something exhilarating and breathtaking: a partnership that would blossom as slowly, yet perfectly, as the lone flower in the snow.

That summer, just as John began to prepare for Secondary School, his parents got divorced. That was the summer that John was forced to move to a new school in Bristol, approximately 160 kilometers from London. From Sherlock.

Twenty-five long years would pass before they saw each other again.

* * *

 

When he heard two sets of footsteps entering the room, Sherlock instinctively spared the intruders a momentary glance. Even as he diligently turned back to his experiment, Sherlock felt his heart racing and his thoughts unable to focus on anything but the relatively short man who was currently engaged in a quiet conversation.

What were the odds? He knew it was statistically improbable that he would ever see John Watson again. And yet, here he was. Standing in the same room as Sherlock.

The first thing he noticed was the cane John seemed to deem essential, despite the fact that his limp was clearly psychosomatic. That just wouldn’t do. Sherlock would have to find a way to prove it unnecessary. He didn’t like it; the foul thing hid the sheer strength that seemed to radiate from John’s very being.

Sherlock felt this undeniable force willing him to speak to John. There was a reason he had been unable to delete their brief friendship in Primary School, despite having deleted many of his childhood memories. John was a flame, no a roaring fire, in the overwhelming darkness that seemed to constantly follow him. He made everything…brighter.

And he was about to walk out of Sherlock’s life. Again.

_Say something. Anything, you absolute tosser! Don’t let him leave again! Don’t. Let. Him. Go._

In a pretense of false indifference, Sherlock managed to blurt out a request to borrow Mike Stamford’s mobile. He felt a flush appear on his face when the effort proved futile, as Mike seemed to be of no help, and he was a pathetic coward who still hadn’t gathered the courage to meet John’s eyes. _Stupid. Stupid. Weak._

To his utter astonishment, Sherlock found himself suddenly face-to-face with his fear as John politely offered his mobile. Then they had locked eyes.

Sherlock realized his own hands were shaking. _Why were they shaking?_

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John stared. “I’m sorry?”

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock prompted, typing into the borrowed mobile in his hands.

John paused, peering curiously at the tall man in front of him.

The detective hid an ecstatic grin behind a mask of indifference and cool apathy.

Sherlock knew the exact moment his old friend recognized him. His face held the same wide-eyed amazement, almost as if he could not believe Sherlock was standing right in front of him.

John smiled.

“Afghanistan.”

* * *

 

The morning alarm went off on John’s clock, slowly rousing him from sleep. As he blinked into aware-ness, the doctor found a pair of bright eyes only a few inches away, peering at his face in excitement.

“John.”

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock!” John exclaimed in surprise, tensing reflexively at his flat-mate who, per usual, was disregarding all sense of personal space. The shorter man flipped onto his back, turning away from Sherlock, who was lying on his side with his head propped up on one hand.

How had he not woken up when Sherlock entered his room?

“John.”

“What have I said about-“

“John.”

The good doctor sighed in fond exasperation, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. God help him, he loved the mad man. “What is it?”

“Bees.”

John waited.

“In approximately ten years, this lifestyle will not longer be suitable. I’ve been contemplating our options, and the only viable alternative is to move from London to a smaller town; I was thinking Sussex. I’ve been reading up on beekeeping and think it’s something that would be of great interest to me in the future.” Sherlock continued in a lazy drawl, his voice quiet in the dimly lit room.

John bit back an amused grin, thinking of the bee picture hanging in the flat. When he had first arrived at 221B Baker Street, John had been greeted by an impatient and anxious potential flat-mate. Sherlock had led John up the stairs, firing off questions that ranged from John’s opinion on classical music to his bathroom routine.

Then, John had accidentally insulted the room that was cluttered with Sherlock’s random possessions. But who could blame him? At one point he even owned three different printers, all spread out around the lounge. (John suspected it was because Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to walk from one end of the room to another).

It was two weeks after living with Sherlock that John discovered the picture, hanging unassumingly on Sherlock’s bedroom wall. John had frozen in surprise, furrowing his brows at the wall decoration.

It was just a coincidence.

_This couldn’t have anything to do with the day they first met all those years ago, right?_

Asking Sherlock was a lot easier than John had expected. He had held his breath, waiting for Sherlock to dismiss the question as trivial, but Sherlock answered without pausing the experiment he was working on in the kitchen.

“Of course, John. Why else would I have that print on the wall?”

And that was the end of it.

“I have been finding London awfully crowded as of late.” He finally answered, delighting in the pleased look that appeared on Sherlock’s face. “But what would I do?”

Sherlock scoffed, “Keep up with that horribly common blog of yours that, for some reason, appeals to people who likely live dreadfully ordinary lives.”

“What would I write about, though?” John pressed, ignoring Sherlock’s typical insults of the general population. “I hardly think anything interesting enough would happen for me to document.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, glaring petulantly at the shorter man who was clearly determined to find fault in his plans for their future. “What? Am I starting to bore you, John?”

“Oh shut it, you git. You know you saved me. If we hadn’t met, I’d still be hobbling around with that bloody cane.” John said, watching a pleased gleam appear in his friend’s eyes.

Sherlock grinned knowingly, pride clear on his features. _My John._

“Obviously.”

 

* * *

 

The end.


End file.
